Isolation

Sydney, the glittering city of life and vibrance, no longer allures me. The warning words of acquaintances who have been there and done it rang in my ears. They were so right. There are more lives and souls around us, but solitude is the main theme here. I am feeling pangs of isolation right now.

There is no lack of friends. In fact, I have met and made wonderful pals, good enough to last me a lifetime. But living alone in a bustling city does come with a price. Safety is always the primary consideration. No longer can I drive out after sunset to the theatre alone without the impending fear of being mugged or kidnapped. Prank calls on the building intercom will leave me trepidated through the night, with the only solace being the comforting and loving voice from the other end of Australia.

Career is as stale as a dead fish here, despite being employed by one of the most renowned medical institutions in New South Wales. There is absolutely no opportunity for advancement at this stage. Is it a sign that I, too, should slow down my pace and relax?

Perhaps the one credit out of all these is the fact that I have finally mastered some art of cooking, an amazing feat for a spoilt brattess from Singaland and of course, an immensed consolation for her gluttony future partner. Independence and freedom should have been more treasured.

It is about time to sort out my priorities in life now.

"It is what a man thinks of himself that really determines his fate."
(Henry David Thoreau, American Essayist, 1817-1862)

Gratitude

She was an unusual lady. And a very unfortunate one. But she inspired us deeply, all those around her who had tendered our care during her last living days with us. Struck mercilessly with sudden blindness, due to a nasty blood clot that choked the vessels supplying her occipital lobes, she had to deal with an unexpected darkness of the world, armed with only the senses of hearing and touch as her only contact with the rest of us.

Our hearts were nevertheless warmed by hers. Her interesting combination of Russian ancestry and a tumultous childhood, being brought up singlehandedly by an unwedded 17 year old mother, had perhaps made her the strong and stoic woman that she was. It probably ran in the genes as well, since her own biological mum had courageously braved the unforeseen dangers of routing via Serbia to Tianjin, China, where she and her child subsequently made their home.

"I can speak Chinese...I was from China..." I still remembered clearly her first few words to me, and her tone, full of pride and strength. There was an immediate affinity, since that was my mother tongue. The nurses and allied staff, too, felt the cord of attachment, especially in the mornings when she would greet us in return with all sincerity and guts. She never shed a tear despite the seemingly hopeless circumstance.

Her family was lovely. Sadness brimmed in their eyes as the flicker of hope faded with days. I consoled her daughter, and did as much as I could to alleviate her sorrows and guilt. She was actually much older than I am, but somehow I felt I could relate to her. I told her about my background, my dad and his illness one day. She was sympathetic and concerned. She gave me her best wishes.

The patient passed away eventually, with peace. As I handed the death certificate to the daughter, I sent my heartfelt condolences and wished I had somewhat made a good difference in the care. She replied with a very soothing smile: "You've not only helped my mother, but you have helped me as well. Thank you."

I could never forget the gaze from her eyes. And I will never regret my decision to be a physician, not in this lifetime.

"At times, our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us."
(Albert Schweitzer, German Medical Missionary, 1875-1965)

Stupidity

It is hard to find a theme and focus now, after such a long hiatus. In just a short one and a half month, I have done, seen, touched, felt and loved so much. The masculine scent of Him lingers, and despite having settled down more comfortably in the exciting world of Sydney, my heart somehow no longer belongs here, and the yearnings to be with the one I love grow stronger by the day.

"For it was not in my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul."

These, however, did not erase the slight turmoil within me, the strange uncertainty of this whole relationship and its future of all. The realistic toss between bacon and feelings, the diversity and yet uncanny similarities of our personalities and backgrounds, and the hope for acceptance by my family and close friends, tickled my rationality, despite my strong desire not to let it lead for once.

Prudence of the best heads, as a friend has kindly pointed out, is often defeated by the tenderness of the best hearts. I want to be mad, insane, to fill my heart like an hourglass, as my brain empties to nought. For hope never abandons us; we abandon it.

"Love is being stupid together."
(Paul Valery, French Poet, 1871-1945)